


The Pining Detective

by WinterTheWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little dash of parent!lock if you squint, Coming Untouched, Dry-Humping, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Happy endings because holy christ, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Romance, Smut, Spoilers for TLD, oops i did it again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9261620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTheWriter/pseuds/WinterTheWriter
Summary: Fix-it fic that starts in the morgue right before John starts punching Sherlock's beautiful, sad, gay little face.





	1. Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> I gotchu.

“STOP LAUGHING AT ME!” 

Sherlock, crazed and terrified, lunges towards Culverton with his scalpel out and his hand shaking. Thankfully, John is faster than he is, and faster than his drug-addled mind can process Sherlock finds himself pressed against the mortuary wall, pinned there by John’s fists in his lapels. 

Silence. 

Faith, or whoever she is, laughs in an airy, fearful way, placing her free hand on her father’s arm. “Should I call security, father?” she asks. John is still holding Sherlock to the wall, frozen in place. Sherlock is certain he’s about to cry, and some hysterical part of his mind desperately hopes John won’t judge him too much for it. 

“No, darling, let’s be off. There’s nothing more to be done. I think I’ve rather made my point,” Culverton chuckles, flashing a slimy wink at Sherlock over John’s shoulder. He doesn’t see it. The two, arm in arm, walk leisurely from the mortuary and the doors swing shut behind them, the metallic sound echoing but still going unheard. 

Just like that, they got away. 

Well, until Mycroft and his team, whom Sherlock also contacted, arrive and collect them. 

“Sherlock—,” John starts, grip on Sherlock’s shirt loosening. On reflex, Sherlock reaches up with both hands and clamps them around John’s wrists, holding them in place. 

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock rasps, his eyes quickly filling with tears and his lower lip trembling. Damn drugs. “I’m sorry, I killed her, I’m so sorry, I—,”

“No. No, Christ, Sherlock.” Dropping his head, John squeezes his eyes shut tightly and sniffs. Sherlock doesn’t dare say anything more. He will not be the reason John Watson cries. Never again. After taking a deep breath, John looks up, his eyes red-rimmed but — thankfully — still dry. “You’re a mess. I’m — a mess. We are…,” he trails off and sighs. “You didn’t kill her, Sherlock. She sacrificed herself for you — no one made her. No one could make her do anything. It was her choice.” 

“But you said—,”

“I took my anger out on you.” John lets go of his lapels and turns his wrists in Sherlock’s hands, breaking the grip and catching them with his own. Sherlock’s heart thrums faster in his chest and for the first time in far too long, it has absolutely nothing to do with the drugs. “I did, I really did, and I’m /sorry/, but you did not kill her. And /even if you did/, Sherlock, this?” He nods his head to the room, “This is not how you react. You are ruining yourself. You almost, Christ, you almost…,” With an almost giddy laugh, John drops his head and rests his forehead on the top of Sherlock’s chest. “If I hadn’t stepped in, you would’ve killed him.” 

“I knew you’d step in,” Sherlock mumbles dumbly. What else could he possibly say?

“No, you didn’t.”  
“….Yeah, alright.” 

They’re still holding hands and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do about it. He doesn’t know what to do about any of this. He needs a fix. God, he really needs a fix. He tremors, just slightly, and that seems to sober John up, make him focus. He picks his head up and straightens (still not letting go), nodding his head once in that stern, stiff nod of his. “Right. First thing’s first. We need to get you clean.” 

Sherlock has the stupid, almost over-powering urge to tell John his feelings for him. He doesn’t know why, exactly, but suddenly the words are there on the tip of his tongue, ready to fall off and out into the open. “John,” he starts, “before you spend any more time doting on me or — um, that,” he nods to their joined hands, “I feel it is imperative that I tell you, well, the thing is—,” 

“Sherlock, I know you’re in love with me.” 

Blink. 

Blink.

Blink.

Blinkblinkblinkblink. 

Blink. 

“…Sherlock?”

Blink. 

“Christ, not again.”

Error: 404. Rebooting system. Please stand by. 

“Sherlock bloody Holmes, wake up or I swear our first kiss will be with my fist.”

Long, high-pitched wheezing sound. 

“You…saw the tape,” Sherlock finally says, his eyes wide and his posture stiff. 

“‘The man we both love’? Yeah, pretty self-explanatory, that.” But John doesn’t look angry. In fact, he looks…fond. No, wrong word. His eyes are soft and there’s a small smile curling his lips, his thumbs brushing over the backs of Sherlock’s hands. He’s /adoring./ Oh. /Oh./ 

“…I don’t—,”

“Sherlock. Nothing is going to happen until you’re in hospital and clean. I’m not confessing my love to you in a mortuary with you high off your arse.” 

….Reboo— “Don’t you DARE.”

“Okay, yes, let’s go.”


	2. Adjusting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after the kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut. Pure, unadulterated smut. What kind of a fix-it fic has no smut? 
> 
> (FYI, you can follow me at @WinterTheWriter on Twitter for fic updates and info -- or just to get to know me!)

It takes Sherlock a week in Bart’s (of course they went to Bart’s — who knows what kind of plans and traps Culverton had in place at the hospital he pretty much owned?) to get through the withdrawal and rid his system of everything he’d pumped into it. In that time, John had mostly moved back into Baker Street, with one very notable difference: Rosamund now slept in John’s old room. John did not. 

When Sherlock finally comes home, holding onto John for balance, he notices immediately and can’t help the shy smile he aims at the ground. John chuckles and rubs his back, leading him to the couch and helping him lie down on his back. “There we are,” he soothes, sitting on the small sliver of couch between Sherlock’s side and the edge. “All settled in. Rosie’s sleeping, you’re clean, and — this is good, yeah? This is all good.” 

“Could be better,” Sherlock flirts, even though nerves make his voice smaller than he would’ve liked, even though he doesn’t know what to do next. But thankfully John, wonderful John, well…

He’s faster than he is. 

And he leans down with a smile, and gives him a kiss. 

~

This time, Sherlock is the one with his fists clutching John’s lapels, holding him close as he loses himself in the wet push and slide of their lips, tongues darting out to sweep teasingly together before withdrawing until he’s panting into the kiss, leaning up from the couch will simultaneously pulling John down. John, being sure to keep their lips together, twists carefully and climbs atop him, reaching down to force Sherlock’s knees apart and slot their hips together, swallowing up the heady moan Sherlock lets out like he’s dying for it. 

They’re both hard already, cocks straining in their respective jeans as John rolls his hips, tugs up the hem of Sherlock’s shirt. They separate for half a second for John to tug off his own shirt before they’re kissing again, soft, needy moans coming from both of their throats. John slides his hand up Sherlock’s shirt and rolls a nipple between his fingers, hips grinding down when Sherlock arches up with a whine, tangling his fingers into John’s hair. Shushing him softly, John kisses away from Sherlock’s lips and down his neck, worrying his skin between his teeth as he starts up a slow, sinful rut, clothed cocks pressed against each other in the best of ways. 

“We have to be quiet,” John murmurs into his neck, dragging his nails slowly down Sherlock’s flank and delighting in the full-body shudder he’s rewarded with. “Can you be quiet?” 

Sherlock shakes his head frantically, every exhalation a moan as he looks at John with half-lidded, lust-frenzied eyes. He grinds his hips upwards and scratches at John’s scalp before skating his hands down his neck and back slowly. So much hot, hard skin to explore. So much, and it’s all /his/. John groans and grabs Sherlock’s wrists, pinning his arms above his head and using the added leverage to grind hard and dirty, his eyes dark as he grins filthily at him. “I can /make/ you be quiet. Would you like that?” At Sherlock’s (very, very enthusiastic nod), he starts to let go of his wrists to reach between them, finally undo their trousers, but Sherlock whines and arches up, legs wrapping around John’s waist, and he pauses. “Oh, you dirty boy,” John practically purrs, leaning down to press soft, gentle kisses along the line of his jaw. “Want me to keep you just like this? Wanna come in your pants for me? /With/ me?” 

“/Yes/, John, god, yes,” Sherlock babbles, hips canting upwards like he can’t help himself. John lets out something like a growl and transfers both of Sherlock’s wrists to the grip of one hand, using the newly-freed one to clamp over Sherlock’s mouth and muffle the endless stream of sounds he can’t hold back. 

And this is how it goes. For several long, wanton minutes, the world is narrowed down to the slow drag of John’s denim-covered cock against Sherlock, pre-cum sticking to their boxers and adding an extra level of friction, of slide, all the while John pants and moans into his ear and Sherlock keens and whimpers against John’s hand. Their skin shines with a thin sheen of sweat, and under the unrelenting strength of John’s grip on his wrists, Sherlock’s hands are clenched into fists as he pushes into it. It’s good. It’s so /fucking/ good and he’s about to lose his mind with the sheer pleasure of it, little thrusts of his hips getting faster and faster with each fiery climb of euphoria up his spine. 

John catches on, brilliant as he is, and he hisses out a, “yes, Sherlock,” against his skin before pulling back his hand and smearing their lips together and fucking his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, thrusts going frantic and quick as he does. He pauses and kneels up, thighs spread to give himself more leverage to push from, the heavy strength with which their cocks move together bordering on an almost-pain Sherlock can’t get enough of. Sherlock’s sounds rise in pitch and length, drawn-out and muffled moans of John’s name into his mouth as he squeezes his eyes shut tightly, ankles locked around John’s waist. Close, close, so close, so close, and so is John, his whole form shaking above him with pleasure as he groans and grunts into his mouth, fucking against him like just that, just the desperate movement through clothing will magic it away and get his cock inside of him. And oh, that was the /wrong/ thing to think about this close to orgasm. 

Sherlock comes with a shout that John quickly re-muffles with his hand, eyes snapping open before they roll back into his head as he writhes and arches below him. His boxers are quickly damp and sticky but he pays it no mind, aftershocks rolling through him with a painful edge of oversensitivity as John helplessly bucks against him, the near-agonized moan he grits out into Sherlock’s neck when he comes going straight to his gut. God, how he loves this man. 

Shaking, panting, and sated, the two slowly detangle themselves. Sherlock drops his legs from around his waist and John releases his wrists, the two of them exchanging soft, closed-lip kisses as they come down from their respective highs. After a few more minutes, John climbs off the couch and helps Sherlock to the shower, stripping off the rest of their clothes slowly before guiding him under the hot spray and washing him down reverently, all the while Sherlock stares at him with so much love and awe-filled adoration it makes John pause every few seconds to kiss that small little smile on Sherlock’s face. They don’t say much and they don’t have to. Everything is at peace. All is well. 

Later on, when they watch the news, Rosie being held on Sherlock’s lap, they see Culverton escorted away by police with a big, crooked grin on his face.

The East Wind never comes. The night is still. 

And for once, the game is not on.


End file.
